


Unit One

by walking_tornado



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Kidnapping, M/M, Police, Supernatural Reverse Big Bang Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:14:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21685852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walking_tornado/pseuds/walking_tornado
Summary: Jared’s team is called to investigate the disappearance of rock star Jensen Ackles.
Relationships: Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki
Comments: 24
Kudos: 168
Collections: 2019 Supernatural Reversebang Challenge





	Unit One

**Author's Note:**

> artwork by blondebitz

___ _

Splinters of wood hit Jared as the tree beside Jensen absorbed the barrage of bullets meant for them both.

“This way,” Jared said, with more confidence than he felt. With Jensen’s arm slung across his shoulders, Jared took as much of the other man’s weight as he could without actually carrying him. Jensen blinked at him, and Jared tightened his hold around the man’s bare back. 

“I’ve got you. Come on, we’ve got to move.” 

The bullet wound in Jared’s shoulder hurt now, and he set his teeth as they began to move. Jensen stumbled a bit, but was able to hold himself up as they lurched from the insufficient shelter of a cluster of pine saplings. Jared had hoped to make it to the large maple a short distance away, but Jensen’s feet caught on something and they both went down. Jared immediately rolled both himself and Jensen into a low area on the irregular forest floor. Bullets hit the earth just in front of them, but the depression they rested in was just enough, barely, to take them out of line of sight. It wouldn’t last, Jared knew. With every step their pursuers took, Jared and Jensen incrementally lost their protection.

 _How the hell did this go so sideways?_ Jared asked himself.

“Fuck,” was all he said aloud.

(five hours before)

“Wait. What?” Jared shook his head and blinked. It was still dark, but the alarm clock at his bedside read 11:15. He’d managed about an hour of sleep. So much for going to bed early. He could have sworn his boss had just said— 

“Ackles. Some kind of musician. Was taken after his show. Get your ass in here.”

No shit, Jared thought. Jared tugged on whatever clothing was nearest. His uniform was presently sitting in the washing machine, wet, and waiting for him to hang it to dry. At least he had a clean one in his locker. Jared spared a glance at the most recent Jensen Ackles spread in Rolling Stone, the one with the unbuttoned shirt barely tucked into half-zipped up jeans, promoting his band’s latest album. Jared hoped it hadn’t been his last.

“ . . . with Kim,” Morgan was saying when Jared entered the bullpen. “Let’s go, people. We need to get ahead of this before the media descends and makes our jobs that much harder.”

Jared held back a yawn. That hour or so of sleep he’d had wasn’t near enough. He’d missed Morgan’s spiel, but he’d read the case brief on his phone's tiny screen while in the cab. He and Kim had been working with Morgan long enough to know how he operated.

“Come on, princess, we’re on witness interviews,” Kim told him as she fastened the last heavy duty velcro strap on her Kevlar vest.

Jared and Kim were both supposed to be off tonight, but Strategic Response’s second and third units were already out on calls so Unit One had been called back in. Most of the time things were pretty calm, but some nights just sucked. 

“You okay?” Kim asked as Jared yawned. She chuckled as he simply nodded. 

“’m good,” he said. “Just life getting in the way of plans.”

“Tell me about it. Hubby and I were in the middle of . . . well, you know, when I got Morgan’s call. One night’s downtime, that’s all I’m asking.” She sighed. “Okay, Padalecki,” she said, as Jared patted down his uniform’s pockets to check that everything was there. “I’m driving.”

Jared nodded at the woman in front of him with two sobbing daughters on either side of her. “Thank you for your time, ma’am. Sign here, please, and you’re free to leave.” He handed her the statement he taken from her and waited for her to hand it back.

“Is Jensen going to be okay?” The oldest daughter asked him. He placed her age at thirteen at most.

“We’ll do our best,” Jared assured her, as he motioned for the next witness to come forward.

“You get that, Misha?” Jared said, knowing that Misha was always listening. Each team member wore an earpiece that not only connected all of them, but was linked to an auto-transcriber that took note of every word they said in case there had to be a review of their actions.

Misha’s tinny voice answered immediately. “White delivery van, man in a ball cap and dark hoodie. Maybe two others. That about it?”

“Yeah.” Jared confirmed. It was a start.

Jared stared at the stadium’s worth of people milling around, forbidden to leave until statements were gathered, and he sighed in frustration. At least the regular police were only directing those who might have relevant information over to him.

Jared pointed to a small group of people and nodded to the adult in business attire who stood with them. “You next.” The businessman walked purposefully forward.

“They didn’t see anything!” he said, waving at the four teens trailing behind him. “Can we go now?” the man continued.

“You were there?” Jared asked.

The man tilted his head towards the teens. “They were. My daughter called me when everything happened.”

“Okay.” Jared turned towards to the young lady beside him. “And who are you?”

“Jennie.”

“Jennie, tell me what you saw.”

“It was . . . I don’t know.” She looked to her father, who began to speak.

“That’s okay,” Jared cut in and reclaimed her attention. “Can you tell me where you were sitting?”

“In that corner part by the stage.”

“Not on the floor, that was way too expensive,” her friend chimed in.

“But it was still really close,” Jennie objected.

“And you are?” Jared asked the friend.

“Chrissy,” he answered.

“Okay. And it was near the end of the concert . . ?” Jared prompted.

“It was the end,” Jennie clarified.

“Yes, just after the last encore,” Chrissy agreed. “And there was all this smoke.”

“From the fog machine.”

“And all the lights were going wild. It was an amazing show.” They both nodded.

“Sounds like it,” Jared agreed absently, as he jotted down their statements. “And then . . .”

“This guy came from the side, and bumped into Jensen,” Chrissy said.

“From the side?” Jared asked. “You mean he was on the edge of the crowd?”

“No,” she shook her head emphatically. “He came from the back of the stage. On that side.”

“And Jensen just collapsed,” Jennie added. “It was hard to see because of all the lights, but the guy dragged him off the stage. I thought it was part of the show.”

“Me too. At first. But then everyone started yelling.”

“Wait right here,” Jared told them, and he stepped away for a moment.

“Misha, suspect was back stage left. Not in the crowd.”

“So he had access. Inside job?”

“Unclear. You find anything on the surveillance?”

“We just got it. I’ll start with the backstage cameras and see if we can get a glimpse of our guy.”

___ _

Jared had soon met enough people that he no longer bothered even trying to remember names. 

“Not sure what he was drinking,” the guy said, blowing a stray strand of neon blue hair away from his face, “but he was looking pretty out of it by the end.” The man’s friend, sporting a large classic pimp moustache, nodded.

“Still did an amazing job on Lightning Heart though!” Pimp Stash added.

Blue Hair nodded emphatically. “No question! Didn’t mean it like that. But his goodbye to the crowd was kind of abrupt.” When Jared nodded his head to indicate that the man continue, he added, “This is my sixth Chev67 concert. He usually eases out of it, but this time .. .”

“Practically ran offstage.” The friend’s moustache twitched and danced as the guy spoke.

“Yeah. But it was more like a stagger.”

His companion shrugged.

“Boss,” Jared began. “Might have something. Ackles might have been under the influence at the end of the concert.”

“Misha, do we have the tapes, yet?” Morgan’s gravelly drawl in Jared’s ear was too loud to be a whisper.

“Just arrived, Boss.” After a long pause, Misha continued. “Definite stagger. Some of the band had been drinking beer, but our boy was drinking water.”

Kim entered the room with a nod to Jared and joined the conversation. “Maybe.” Jared heard a stereo effect as he listened to her talking beside him and also coming from his earpiece. “But water might not have been the only thing in the bottle.”

“Okay, Kim—” Morgan began.

“Going to see if I can get ahold of the bottles from the stage,” Kim finished for him, matching her actions to her words. “And I’ll see if I can get confirmation from the backstage workers.”

“Do I even need to be here?” Morgan asked, and Jared could easily hear the smile of approbation through the headset.

“Someone has to pay for pizza afterwards, Boss,” Misha quipped.

“Good job guys, keep it up,” Morgan ignored him. Then he sighed. “I have a briefing to give to the press.”

___ _

“And his last song was just sooo—”

“Jared. I might have something,” Kim said. He looked over the stadium balcony and saw her talking to one of the staff.

Jared could have kissed her, had he leaned that way. He’d heard all he wanted to from this latest erstwhile potential witness, who, it turned out, had been stoned for the last two days and could add nothing remotely reliable.

“ . . . was their drummer when they used to be a group of five, not four.”

Jared interrupted the woman. “Thank you, that was very helpful. You can go home.” He turned away from her and raised a hand to his earpiece as he focused on Kim, tuning out the woman’s disjointed protests as one of the venue’s security personnel escorted her out.

“The manager’s assistant said he found an envelope outside the band’s bus at the last venue.”

“Didn’t you talk to the manager?” Jared asked.

“Yeah. Jim Beaver. He never mentioned it.” Kim’s annoyance at that particular omission came through loud and clear.

“Okay,” Jared said, “I’m done here. Let’s go talk to Mr. Beaver, again.”

___ _

“You didn’t tell us about the envelope,” Kim said, her words clipped and accusatory.

“I didn’t say nothing, ‘cause it _was_ nothing!” Beaver glared down at them from the top step of the tour bus. He’d left the ‘you complete moron’ unsaid, but Jared heard it clearly nonetheless.

“We’d like to see it anyway, sir,” Jared interjected, seeing from the set of Kim’s jaw that her next words were likely to require an apology from the Boss on behalf of the city’s finest.

“Fine.” Beaver growled, and he walked a little way into the tour bus before coming back down the bus’s steps with a blue recycling bin. “Help yourselves. Purple paper, smells like perfume. Didn’t even give it to Jensen. The boys are swamped with fan-mail from the sane ones. This stuff just gets tossed and shredded.”

“So there have been others?” Jared asked, accepting the bin.

“What d’ya think? Chev67’s famous; brings out all sorts. That all?”

“For now,” Kim told him. Beaver harrumphed and closed the door on them. Kim and Jared just looked at each other. Sorting through paper wasn’t the sort of work they normally were tasked with.

“What are we looking for, Boss?” Kim asked Morgan. Morgan replied immediately, which made Jared smile. The man never left them hanging.

“You’re looking for someone who knows intimate details of Ackles’ life, who over-analyzes what he says, who’s persistent, who’s escalating demands for attention . . .”

“I got purple paper,” Kim said, then sniffed it before scrunching her face and holding it away from her. “And perfume. Axe, I think. Had a boyfriend who put the stuff all over himself.”

“The men’s spray?”

Kim rolled her eyes. “It’s perfume—just call it what it is.” She handed Jared the half-opened envelope.

“Boss?” Jared said, after taking out the letter and giving it a quick scan, “You’ve got to see this. It talks about two previous attempted contacts. The writer seems upset that Ackles rebuffed his advances. Vaguely threatening. “‘I'm going to make you see.’ And it goes on like that,” Jared continued. “‘. . .Will see you soon. You’ll look so amazing naked with duct tape on that soft skin . . .’ and on and on.”

“Do we have anything on the writer: age, sex?”

“No one uses paper anymore,” Misha commented. 

“Ackles is something of a techno-phobe, according to his manager,” Kim told him, and continued flipping through her notes. “The guy doesn’t even have an email address.”

“It’s signed ‘Chau’,” Jared said. “Not sure if that’s a name or maybe a misspelling of _ciao_. . . Oh,” Jared paused to pick up some photos that had fallen from the envelope. “And we have dick pics. I’d say adult and male.” Jared’s smirk faded as Kim took the photos and gave him a pretend scowl. He just shrugged and flashed her his most winsome smile.

“Okay, send me a copy of the letter. Misha, we need to find this guy’s address.”

“The pics?” Jared asked as he unzipped his side pocket to retrieve his cell.

“No, thank you,” Morgan answered immediately. “Just put ‘em into evidence.”

“Boss,” Misha said, “I’ll cross-check Chau with the ticket sales and the police database, just in case, and let you know if anything flags.” Misha’s side of the conversation was punctuated by rapid tapping as he proceeded to do what he’d outlined.

“Good,” Morgan said. “Jared, the letter. Then you and Kim keep going through the rest.”

Jared snapped a photo and sent it off.

___ _

___ _

Jensen woke to pain. It took him a few moments to try and sort through his body’s confusing signals and identify what hurt, until he realized he simply hurt everywhere. A sharp slap sent his head careening towards the left. He didn’t fall from his chair, but only because his hands were tied to the armrests.

He hadn’t yet seen his tormentor, only a looming dark shadow as his eyes struggled to focus. One of his contacts seemed to have fallen out, and the other had somehow gotten twisted back. With a tendency towards dry eyes, he preferred his glasses. He only wore contacts on stage: his concession to his publicist. But now he struggled to focus and regretted ever putting the damned things in his eyes.

He grimaced at the bitter, unfamiliar taste in his mouth, and he wondered what he’d been dosed with.

“Hey!” Jensen shout, intended to come out as a loud and accusatory, was little more than a mild croak. A straw was put against his lips, but he clenched them tight and turned away. He may be parched, but he had no intention of complying with his kidnappers. The end of a cold metal cylinder pressed against his temple. He froze.

The straw was once again placed against his lips. Jensen wasn’t stupid. He opened his mouth and took a sip, grimacing at the aftertaste of copper from the stale water, and wondered what had been added to it. Pressure against his forehead, none too gentle, prompted him to drink more. The shadowy figure still hadn’t said a word. Jensen’s vision had cleared enough to make out a man in a dark suit, but before he could see more clearly, the edges became fuzzy as the drugs hit his system, and he tumbled into darkness again without any clue as to what was happening to him.

___ _

Kim’s loud knock faded into silence for the second time and she glanced at Jared, then stepped out of the way. Osric Chau’s front door gave a satisfying crack as it burst open under the handheld battering ram. Jared tossed aside the ram and followed Kim into the bungalow. Movement in the corner of the room drew their aim as they shouted for the suspect to freeze. Jared got there first and forced the man to the ground, searching him for weapons. Finding none, he signalled to Kim, who continued clearing each room.

Jared looked at the man below him. Slight, with a tooth missing and wide-eyed with surprise, the young man didn’t strike Jared as much of a threat.

“What’s going on?” Chau said, and his voice sounded younger than Misha’s records said he was.

“I’ll ask the questions,” Jared said. “Did you send a letter to Jensen Ackles?”

“Yes.”

Jared paused. He hadn’t expected an admission. He looked around, at a room that could only be described as a shrine to the rockstar.

“Did you kidnap Mr. Ackles?”

“Kidnap! No. I didn’t do anything like that. Just sent a letter. . .” The last part devolved into a whimper as he tried to turn his head to look around, and Jared tightened his lock.

“All clear.” Kim said, and a moment later she walked back into the room. “Ackles isn’t here.”

The man Jared still held pinned to the ground became visibly upset to hear that Jensen was missing. Kim raised her eyebrows at him as they heard the stalker muttering about people taking what’s his.

“Do we really have to let him go?”

Jared understood the feeling. There was something off about the man, about his house, and the little hairs on the back of Jared’s neck stood up.

“Boss?” Jared asked, knowing that Morgan was listening in, as always, next to Misha in the unit’s SUV.

“He hasn’t done anything,” Morgan said.

“Yet,” Jared added, and Kim nodded.

“Yet,” Morgan agreed. “But he hasn’t done anything. Rule of law, guys. Hold him on for trespassing for the letter he left on the set. That’s the most we can do for now.”

“Okay, guys,” Misha’s cut in. “I have tracked three white vans in the area that night. One is a rental, and the other two are registered to local food delivery services. Addresses sent to your phones.”

“Thanks, Mish,” Jared said checking the locations. With a nod to Kim he continued. “I’ll take the rental on Murray St.”

“And I’ll check out,” she paused as she checked the name, “Crowley’s Catering. It’s just around the corner.”

“Go.” Morgan never bothered wasting words.

The rental van on the end of Murray was parked behind a dilapidated house, clearly uninhabited, with two broken windows and an unlatched storm door. It sat at the edge of the city limits and jutted up against a protected greenspace, thick with trees.

As Jared walked around to the side of the house, Kim reported in.

“Crowley’s Catering is a bust,” Kim said. “All their trucks have solid alibis.” She hesitated a moment before continuing. “But. . . something’s up. The manager is . . .a bit off, somehow. Seems suspicious, but whether it’s the Ackles kidnapping or some other sort of illegal activity, I don’t know.”

Jared’s interest was caught by the new tire tracks in the mud on the side of the house, leading up to what appeared to be a warehouse further back. He counted three sets of distinct tracks as he listened to his co-workers .

“On our way,” Morgan said. “Is he there right now?”

“He’s gone into the back to get the papers I asked for that show their delivery itinerary over the last few days.”

“Good.”

Jared crouched by the tire tracks and took out his scope to check out the barn. Other than the white van, he could see no other vehicle. He scanned the treeline and, as expected, saw nothing of interest. 

“I see you, Rhoads. I’m in position,” Morgan said.

“Thanks, Boss,” Kim whispered. “He’s coming back with the paperwork I asked for.”

“Boss, I’m taking a quick dive into Crowley’s records,” Misha’s voice was a low purr, as it always was anytime he was on the trail of something interesting. “Something’s not right, but I need more time to figure it out. It looks like too much money changing hands for just a small family catering service. I’m thinking maybe drugs or money laundering.”

Morgan’s voice was steel. “Kim, I want you out of there. Make whatever excuse you have to. We need to rope in drugs and major crimes before we go any further. Misha, temporary stake out until another car comes to replace you. I’m sending the request now. I want to know who comes in and out. Might have nothing to do with our kidnapping, but. . . just in case.”

The water from the muddy ground seeped into Jared’s pants as he knelt down to snap a photo of the tracks he’d found. Jared didn’t send the tire track photos to Morgan just yet, but he did mention it to the team.

“House on Murray is negative,” he told them, “but three sets of recent tire tracks are going to a warehouse or barn in the back. Going in closer.”

In the pause while he waited for a response, Jared could almost feel their hesitation.

Morgan confirmed Jared’s suspicions. “Negative, Jared.”

“Boss, I—” A cry that came from the barn snapped Jared’s head around. He took out his earpiece to hear it more clearly. When it happened again, he started moving, hugging the treeline as he approached the large barn, and keeping as low as possible in the open areas. He’d reached the barn before he remembered the earpiece and slipped it on again.

“—red? Jared?” Morgan’s usually calm, unflappable voice was sharp. What strangers might have mistaken for anger or irritation, the members of Team One knew was concern. Jared’s absence had been noticed.

“I heard something. Checking it out. Send backup.”

“Kim, get to Jared, ASAP.” Morgan said nothing about Jared’s decision to countermand his previous order, nor did he reiterate for Jared to wait, and Jared gave thanks for a boss who trusted his people’s judgment. 

“Eyes on target,” Jared whispered. “Seated. Tied. Suspect also in the room: a single adult male, dark hair, about five foot eight.” The suspect held Ackles’ torn shirt in his hand but Jared couldn’t make out what he was saying. Quietly, Jared felt for the targeted listening device in one of his cargo pockets, while keeping an eye on the situation inside.

“Condition of target?”

Jared took an extra few seconds to assess Ackles’ physical condition. It was difficult to see clearly in the low light emitted by the kerosene lamp. Jared’s lips thinned. Nothing was broken, as far as he could tell from where he peered through some misaligned slats in the rear door, and the bruising and bleeding didn’t appear too severe. Ackles was conscious, if barely. It was difficult to see through the small gap in the boards, and scaffolding materials were in the way in some places, but he thought he spied a taser burn on Ackles’ bare torso.

“Can’t really tell from here. No shirt. Bloody nose. Maybe bruising. But I think mostly unharmed.” An unsatisfactory answer, Jared knew, but the best he could do for now. “Suspect standing . . . no weapon visible.” His team knew, as well as he did, that nothing visible was a long way from being unarmed.

As Jared watched, the rockstar shuddered and vomited. The suspect, a man dressed head to toe in black, walked toward Ackles holding a bucket of water, and Jared shrank down as far as he could, hoping the man hadn’t seen him. He heard the splash and a bewildered yelp of surprise as the water was poured over Ackles.

“Look at you now, Jensen. Not so pretty, are we?” English accent, Jared noted, and he inched himself higher to reclaim his peephole.

Ackles struggled against the bonds tying him to the chair and blinked away the water dripping into his eyes. He couldn’t have been awake long, Jared observed. From the energetic way Ackles was struggling, his wrists would have been raw and bleeding had he been fighting like this for long. 

“What the fuck is this!” Ackles spat. Jared could hear the frustration in the man’s voice. His captor simply stared at him, impassive.

“Money? Is that what this is about, Mark?”

Jared narrowed his eyes. Mark. It seemed to him that the name was familiar. Ducking his head down so that his shoulder half-muffled his voice, he whispered, “Suspect’s name is Mark. Target recognizes him.” He returned to his peephole. Nothing had changed. Ackles was still trying to engage his captor, and the other man simply stared and waited.

“Sheppard?” Misha’s microphone picked up a small thud and a fumbling of papers before he continued. “Is it Mark Sheppard? He used to be in the band. A founding member.”

“Unknown,” Jared replied, and then his attention was drawn back to the two men below him.

“It wasn’t personal, Mark!”

That was the first thing that made the other man react. The blow rocked Jensen’s chair back and narrowly missed knocking him over backwards.

Mark’s voice, when it came, was deceptively mild considering the violent outburst.

“It was personal to me.”

“What do you want from me?”

“This. Just this. You, here, bleeding. That’s what I want. My friends, you’ll be meeting them soon,” Mark continued, as if an afterthought. “They want money.” 

Jared deftly brought up his rifle barrel to the small opening and slowed his breathing in preparation to shoot. Jared adjusted the rifle in slow increments, but Sheppard’s pacing increased, moving him in and out of the cover provided by the stacked scaffolding.

“And while you’re at it, you might as well give me what you fuckwits damn well owe me.”

“Easy peasy,” Jensen said. Jared could immediately tell from his tone that there would be nothing conciliatory about what came next.

Jared muttered, “Don’t do it,” under his breath. 

“That would about. . . hmm,” Jensen paused as if thinking. “Oh yeah, not a goddamn thing!” This time the blow did knock the chair over. Despite his face pressed into the floor by the awkward position, Ackles’ shouted opinions about Mark and where he should shove all manner of things was perfectly clear.

Jared swore under his breath. There was no good shot from here now, not with Mark’s movement. He took a step back and looked over the lopsided barn, searching for a better vantage point. He thought he spied a window on the sloped roof. 

Mark roughly righted the chair before he went on. “By my estimates, the band owes me about fifteen million.”

“What?! That’s insane.” Jensen’s voice was a bit distorted as he tongued his split lip.

“Chev67 was mine, and you stole it!”

“No, that’s not—”

“Shut UP! I! Me! I invited you into MY band. Taught you to play the fucking guitar! And now you and that fucking guitar are on every screen and posted everywhere I turn, with MY band.”

“You showed me three chords! That’s it. And I—”

“And you repaid me how? Kicked me out of my own band!”

“I had nothing to do with that,” Jensen explained. “The guys voted and—”

“You fucked up everything! And made it all revolve around you!”

“No, that was you! ‘Just be window dressing for the teenyboppers, Jen’,” Jensen said in a bitter voice, pitched low in a bad mimic of Mark’s. “‘You don’t even have to play, just stand there and look pretty.’ Ring a bell?”

“And you couldn’t even do that right!”

“You didn’t fit.” Ackles appeared to have given up trying to reason with him. His words were harder now. “The others were tired of fighting you over every little thing, so they finally kicked you out. But I wasn’t part of it. No one asked me.”

“Misha?” Jared whispered. “You’re right. It’s Sheppard. And he’s holding a grudge. Big time.”

“Okay, well, Sheppard was in the band and left about a month before their big break. I imagine maybe he has some hard feelings. If—”

Kim interrupted him in the calm monotone she used anytime she was sighting targets. “Jared, incoming. Three suspects exiting a black SUV. Can’t make out the licence plate. They’re armed. I’m in position on the roof.” With a slight movement, Jared spied the tip of Kim’s rifle, steady from behind the old house’s chimney. From her vantage point she would have a clear shot at the trio until they entered the building. But a shootout was not in Ackles’ best interest.

“Hold,” Morgan ordered. “Jared?”

He couldn’t protect Jensen from here. He looked again to the other side of the building, where the window further up would have an unobstructed line of sight. “I’m taking the high point.”

“Do it,” Morgan agreed.

Slowly, deliberately, Jared moved. Slow was fast. Slow was silent. With a minimum of wasted movement, Jared slipped around to the back of the building, where the roof sloped downward, low enough for him to snag the roof’s edge with a jump. Being tall and athletic definitely helped in his job. He dangled from his fingers at first, then lifted himself enough to throw an arm over the edge, after which came his leg. As he rolled onto the shallow sloped roof, he let himself pause for a couple of breaths to steady his heart rate. Fast made mistakes. Slow and steady. Careful of the roof’s age and a bit leery of its upkeep, Jared made his way to the single window on the far side of the structure, where the low angled roof met the taller, sharper one.

Throughout his manoeuvres, Kim provided a narrative. “The three of them are talking by the truck bed. . . One’s taking out something. Looks like an empty duffle bag. . . The tallest one is—movement by the barn door. . . Sheppard coming out. . . Arguing. . . They’re all headed back in. . . Boss?”

“Hold,” Morgan said again.

“And. . . I don’t have the shot.” Kim said.

“Jared?”

Jared had used Sheppard’s absence to pry out the window pane from the half-rotted wooden casement. He’d hoped to catch Ackles’ attention, but the man had slumped back down in his seat, and Jared didn’t dare risk any obvious attempt at contact.

“Guys,” Misha cut in. “The manager at Crowley’s is talking about having sent in a ransom demand. They’re in on it somehow. Apparently it was sent to the band manager, Beaver.”

“That bastard,” Kim said. Her normal indignation was muted by her continued concentration.

“I guess the manager told them they can’t get the money,” Misha continued. “Or won’t. I dunno. Deadline is in twenty minutes.”

As Sheppard and his accomplices came in, arguing, Jared took aim. “In position.”

___ _

The shouting seemed to have roused Ackles, and he moaned. 

“What do you mean, you sent a ransom demand?!” Sheppard spat the words, his face nearly purple with rage. “That was not the plan.”

“Well, your plan sucked. We decided to go in a different direction.”

“You . . .you . . .” Apoplectic, Sheppard stared at them.

“They’re going to pay. It’s twice what you wanted from Ackles.”

“And how do you plan on returning Jensen without getting caught?”

“We’re not. The money comes into the account, and we get rid of him.” The man tossed the oversized duffle to the floor.

“They are not going to pay, you morons!”

“You’ll see. The deadline is in fifteen minutes. We’re going to be rich.”

“Mmm,” Mark nodded his head, thinking about the possibilities. Then he glared at them all with narrowed eyes. “And you decided all this without informing me.”

“We’re telling you now.”

Sheppard turned around and kicked in frustration at a leaning pile of disassembled scaffolding. With a creaking crash it came down.

___ _

“Jared, report!”

Jared scoped the area, noting that a metal brace had landed perilously close to Ackles, but hadn’t touched him. Sheppard and his goons were picking themselves up from where they’d dived out of the way. One was cradling his arm, but Jared couldn’t spy any other injuries. “A bunch of scaffolding fell, Boss. No serious injuries. But the situation’s devolving fast.”

“Right. We’re caught in traffic on the bridge overpass: nothing’s moving. Any idea who the accomplices are?” Morgan asked.

It was Misha who answered. “Boss, Sheppard was in jail in 2015. Extortion, pled down to misdemeanour. He had some colorful pals while he was there. Jared’s photo isn’t clear enough for facial recognition, but I think I can make out his roommate, Seb Roche. Petty thief, mostly, but got mixed up in a bank heist gone bad. Flipped on his crew for a more lenient sentence. He’s out now.”

“All right. And the other two?”

“Can’t see enough to make out the guy in the black shirt, but the other could be Matt Cohen.”

“Shit.” Morgan clearly recognised the name, and so did Jared. Cohen’s reputation as a mob enforcer was well known.

“Yeah,” Misha added. “Well, well. . . One of his times in the joint intersected with Roche and Sheppard.”

Jared watched as Cohen approached Sheppard. Their conversation was pitched low, as if to shut out the other two, and Cohen went outside with Sheppard, leaving the other two to follow. Jensen immediately began pulling on his restraints. Jared wondered what he’d overheard to make him so frantic.

“I’m going in,” Jared told his team. He immediately shouldered his rifle and began securing his rope. Rappelling through the window would not only be faster, but presented the least amount of risk.

“Negative,” Morgan told him. “The hostage isn’t in immediate danger. Hold for backup.”

“I have the shot,” Kim informed them. Kim was good. If she said she could neutralize them, Jared believed her.

“Boss, I can get him,” Jared said. He waited. He wouldn’t go without Morgan’s approbation, but Jared was on the ground, and Morgan usually deferred to his people’s judgment.

Jared held still, his breathing slowed as he had been trained, and he waited. That was the job, the vast majority of the time: hurry up and wait.

“Go,” Morgan said. Jared went.

* * *

Once Jared breached the window, he moved quickly and silently, making his way down to the cold mottled grey concrete floor, then a hard run to the captive. No cries or shots followed him. He crouched beside the captive and began immediately working to free him. The cords were tight around Ackles’ hands, and Jared suspected that the man didn’t have much feeling left in them. Jensen shivered in the cold, and Jared could see goosebumps on the man’s chest, along with an assortment of bruises. And yes, Jared noted, that did appear to be a taser burn. Jared drew his knife, but the various electrical cords Sheppard had lashed Ackles’ hands with would be tough to cut through. 

“Mr. Ackles, my name is Jared. I’m with the Strategic Response Unit and I’m here to get you home.” When Ackles turned his head to look at him, Jared was momentarily frozen by the most gorgeous green eyes he’d ever seen.

___  
  
_ _ _

Jensen started. He wasn’t religious and didn’t believe in angels, but holy crap! This guy had appeared out of nowhere. There was only one door, and he certainly hadn’t come through there. As Jensen simply blinked at him, the man—Jared—began working at the cords that bound his hands. Jensen couldn’t feel his fingers anymore. Mark had been . . . enthusiastic in ensuring he couldn’t escape. Jensen’s efforts at freeing himself had resulted in nothing more than broken skin and rivulets of blood snaking down his arms.

Jared was concentrating on his bound hands. High cheekbone, a strong chin, and a confidence that shone in every motion, not to mention the body that filled a uniform very nicely. Jensen opened his mouth to say something when a bout of nausea hit him, and it took all his restraint to wait until he’d turned his head away from his rescuer before vomiting once again. He groaned at the strain on his bruised ribs. The man laid a warm hand on Jensen’s cold shoulder. Jensen shivered at the influx of warmth.

“Do you know what they gave you?” he asked.

Jensen shook his head no, and immediately regretted it as he heaved again.

“It’s okay Mr. Ackles. We’re getting you out of here.”

“Mark,” Jensen said, and grimaced at the taste in his mouth.

“What?”

“Mark. It’s Mark,” Jensen had let himself sag down in the chair, exhausted by the effort of expelling everything in his stomach, but he leaned his head back enough to get a look at the man before him. Patches bearing the names Padalecki and SRU stood out sharply against his uniform.

“We know,” Jared said, with a small, sad smile. “We’re going to need some wire cutters,” he added, with a wave at Jensen’s still bound hands, “But I think I can free your feet.” There was a pause, before Jared added, “How long?” Jensen looked at him in confusion. Jared wasn’t even looking at him, but had turned towards the door. When he turned back, his face was completely serious as he looked Jensen up and down. Jensen wondered if he’d passed inspection, and Jared’s next words answered any doubts he had. “No. He’d wouldn’t make the climb down,” the man said. He held his right hand to his ear as he spoke. “We’re coming out the front. Tell me when.” He turned his full attention to Jensen. “Mr. Ackles, we need to move quickly.” Jensen looked at his hands, but the man shook his head. “No time. We’re moving. Now.”

Jensen stood up, with Jared holding his arm, but he promptly collapsed on numbed feet and a last minute grab by Jared was all that saved him from crashing onto the floor. Now that he was moving, the pins and needles attacked, and Jensen closed his eyes against the pain. He whimpered as the Jared helped him up and repositioned Jensen to take almost all of his weight as they slowly made their way to the door. Jensen stumbled again and the arm around his shoulders tightened to steady him. Jensen found his face pressed against the man’s uniform.

After what seemed like forever but was probably closer to a minute, the majority of the pain had subsided, leaving only tingles when they stopped at the door.

“We wait for the all-clear,” he said. “Kim?”

“No, it’s Jensen.”

“What?”

“My name,” Jensen said. “Not Mr. Ackles, and definitely not Kim. Jensen.” Jensen couldn’t have explained why it was so important the Jared know that.

The guy’s easy smile was stunning. “Jensen,” he said, then he pointed to his earpiece. “My partner, Kim. She’s going to let us know when it’s clear to go.”

“Oh.” There was a lot more that he could have said, but Jensen felt a bit short of breath. The cobwebs were coming back, making it hard to think.

Jensen waited as Jared listened to a conversation Jensen wasn’t privy to. Without warning, Jared grabbed his arm.

“We go now,” he said. “Keep low and head towards the forest.”

With his hands tied, Jensen’s balance was off-kilter. He stumbled once on an old timing belt that had been discarded and forgotten in the overgrown grass. Jared reached down to help him up, then froze and brought his hand up to his ear.

“Where?”

Jensen didn’t have to ask what was wrong. Just then a yell came from behind them, and Jared heard Mark and his friends shouting. Jensen turned back and saw them running towards him. The dark-haired man had argued for his execution, so when Jensen heard the brief crack of a rifle coming from the rook of the house and the guy shuddered and collapsed, Jensen felt a confusing mix of relief and horror. He’d never seen death like this. That shot was almost immediately followed by other, louder shots, and Jensen looked to Jared for instructions, but Jared had fallen to one knee and was hugging his chest. Jensen couldn’t tear his eyes away from the small red hole in the man’s jacket. 

“Go!” Jared rose to a crouch and grabbed Jensen by his tied hands. “Run!” 

With Jared half-dragging him, Jensen made it out of the yard and into the dubious shelter of the trees. It took Jensen a moment to identify the thwap-thwap sound as bullets hit the surrounding trees. He felt hazy, as if Mark had dosed him again and it was only Jared’s sharp, “This way!” that kept him moving. His ribs had settled into a constant throb interspersed with acute lightning bolts of stabbing pain. The air seemed strangely thin here. He faded out again, coming to with Jared supporting him as they careened through the forest.

“I’ve got you. Come on, we’ve got to move.”

The next time Jensen stumbled, they weren’t able to get back up. There was a slight hollow, where a large exposed tree root, the same one that had tripped up Jensen, offered some minimal protection.

“Fuck! Boss, under fire here,” Jared said, and Jensen hoped Jared’s boss was a damn sight better than his band’s manager. Beaver would probably get out his contract and go through it to see whether helping him was really worth the bother. The rational corner of Jensen knew the sentiment for the hyperbole it was, but Jensen wasn’t feeling anywhere close to rational at the moment.

In the unexpected silence, he poked his head up to see what had happened.

Jensen had never fully appreciated exactly how terrifying the sound of a cocking gun could be.

Mark stood not two arms lengths away. He wouldn’t be able to miss from there. Jensen swallowed. His tongue stuck to the side of his dry mouth, but he realized that he didn’t have anything else to say to his former bandmate, anyway.

His voice was croaky when he finally did speak: a last attempt to explain.

“Mark, you don’t want to do this. You and the band drifted apart. It happens. And it wasn’t my fault that our big break came a little while later.” Mark’s aim didn’t waver.

“Mr. Sheppard, put down your weapon.” Jared’s voice came from behind some greenery. “I’m Officer Jared Padalecki, with the SRU.”

Jensen couldn’t turn away from the barrel still pointed at him. While he knew Jared was close by, he heard the words as if from far away. Jared was trying to reason with Mark, trying to find some common ground. Jensen couldn’t hear what Mark answered. It all sounded like the wah-wah-wah of the teacher in the old Charlie Brown cartoons. Jensen made himself look past the barrel, to Mark, who was now splitting his focus between Jensen and Jared. As if in slow motion, Jensen moved. He barrelled into Mark, unbalancing him and they both fell backwards, with the gun a short distance away. Jared’s shout of “No!” faded into the background. Mark’s hands closed like a vice around his neck, and Jensen struggled to free himself.

“You,” Mark said, his face livid.“I—” Jensen never knew what else Mark would have said. As Mark increased his efforts to strangle Jensen, and as the edges of Jensen’s vision began to darken, Jensen heard an understated pop, and Mark’s hands loosened. He fell forward over Jensen and didn’t move.

The ambulance arrived four minutes before the first reporter and five minutes after the rest of Jared’s team.

Jensen became aware that he’d been staring at the same spot on the ground for far too long from his perch on the back of the ambulance, out of sight of the reporters waiting behind the yellow tape. Someone was crouched in front of him, trying to get his attention, much as Jared had done. After lifting Mark’s shoulder off of Jensen’s leg, where he’d fallen, Jared had asked if he was okay. He’d repeated it, but Jensen hadn’t answered. Mark’s eyes had still been open, and his final expression was of mild surprise.

Mark had been right, in a way: he’d been instrumental in Jensen’s success. He’d taught Jensen his first chords, given the aimless and newly graduated young man something to focus on other than his parents’ acrimonious divorce. And now. . . Jensen couldn’t make sense of what had happened in the space of a few hours. From musician, to kidnapper, then on to attempted murderer, to . . . corpse. To Jensen's right, from behind the old barn, the sun began to rise, painting the sky in shades of red and orange.

At some point, he realized that Jared was being treated in the ambulance across from him. Jared’s uniform vest was off and being bagged by a lawyer-type in a business suit, while a paramedic bandaged his shoulder properly. Jared seemed pale and a bit shaken in his own right, even though it had been him who decided to shoot Mark, and to shoot him not in the leg, or shoulder or arm, but squarely in the center of his forehead. Jensen wanted to ask about that, but not now. Jared continued to throw concerned glances at him while he spoke with the woman beside him, wearing a uniform like Jared's. Another lawyer-type was taking her vest, rifle, badge . . . Someone said something about an investigation. She seemed annoyed.

Jensen allowed himself to be seated into the ambulance, and he watched the doors latch shut and cut him off from the people who rescued him, as well as from Mark’s now-covered body.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Ackles, it’s best if you don’t have contact with Officer Padalecki at this time.” It was the second time that Sergeant Morgan of the SRU had denied his request to talk to Jared.

“Sergeant Morgan, I just want a couple minutes of his time. To thank him. I. . . didn’t get a chance after. . . Mark.”

“Yes. . . well. I understand that Mr. Ackles, but it’s best for all concerned if . . .”

“It will only take a moment of his time.” Jensen’s fingers drummed a fast rhythm on his leg as he sat in Morgan’s office: the sound of a tree getting shot up by repeated fire. He’d time to think, over the last couple of days, and he wasn’t happy with how he’d left things with Jared. The man had taken a bullet meant for him. Then a thought occurred to him and his fingers stilled. “Does he not want to see me?”

Morgan sighed and rubbed at his temple, then he sat down in one of the visitor chairs in the lobby and motioned for Jensen to do the same.

“Officer Padalecki is on administrative leave.” Morgan held up a hand to forestall the anticipated questions. “He’s fine, but shoulder injuries can be tricky.” Morgan studied Jensen for a moment. “And he isn't allowed to contact you right now.” He raised his hand again and Jensen bit back his objections. “Not until the investigation clears him. It’s protocol in every officer-involved shooting.”

“Oh.” There was a lot more Jensen wanted to say, but one look at Morgan’s face, almost daring him to object, silenced him.

“I assure you, Mr. Ackles, I will pass along to Jared that you stopped by.”

Jensen hesitated, but there was nothing else he could think of to do. “Tell him . . .”

“Yes?”

After a pause, Jensen shrugged. “Nothing. I’ll tell him myself later.”

The camera flashes made him blink as he exited the station, but Jensen let his bodyguards handle the logistics of getting him to his car. He ignored the waving phones asking for a selfie and the requests to pose. His fingers continued drumming, but now and then they contorted themselves into a chord. He’d almost pinned down the chord sequence in his head, but the bridge eluded him.

Unit One was the only one of Chev67’s songs to be released with no backing vocals or harmonies. Jensen surprised his fans, the label, and his band, by adding it into the set list during his first performance after the kidnapping. A video of it went viral, and the studio snuck it as as a bonus track onto the band’s next album that had been in post-production. It hit number one in two weeks.

___ _

___ _

Jared. With a whizzz-ffft, the long, thin balloon in Jensen’s hand took off over the heads of a dozen children, half of them holding balloon animals courtesy of Chev67’s lead singer. Jared stood in the doorway of the children’s ward, wearing the same poleaxed expression that Jensen suspected was on his own face. Jensen held a finger up, silently asking him to wait a moment. At Jared’s nod, Jensen began blowing the last few balloon giraffes.

“Hey!” Jensen said, as he walked over to where Jared waited by the door. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Jared gestured towards the large sign on the wall, indicating that physiotherapy was down the hall. “I was just on my way out and saw you through the window.”

“How have—”

“Is your—”

They both gave an awkward smile and fell silent. Then Jensen continued. “Is your shoulder okay?”

Jared flexed in answer, with a cocky smile that lit up his face. “They gave me the all-clear, today. Full range of motion, no nerve damage.”

“I never really thanked you,” Jensen began. His fingers began their restless drumming again.

“Nah, no, it’s all good. That’s the job.”

“Yeah . . .” Jensen hesitated, then barrelled on. “The thing is, I’ve been thinking about you, it, a lot.”

“Yeah, I’ve hear the song! Unit One, right?”

“You have? Good. I was hoping— It was my way of saying thanks to. . . well, the team.”

“Well, we all thought it was great.” Jared paused. “Must have been hard to write. Reliving everything.”

Jensen shrugged, then went for it.

“Would you like go out with me sometime? Supper, or lunch, maybe coffee?”

Jared had started nodding before Jensen finished.

“Yeah.”

“Not sure what you’re doing tonight, but if you want to come by after the show, we could catch a bite.”

“Tonight?”

“I can leave a ticket for you at security.” When Jared nodded, Jensen continued. “Show opens at eight, but we’re only going on at nine.”

“Nine, tonight. It’s a date.” Jared seemed to catch himself and studied Jensen for his reaction.

“Definitely a date,” Jensen confirmed. The familiar, staccato beating of his fingers finally stilled.

**Author's Note:**

> Be sure to check out blondebitz's awesome artwork: [link to art post](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21608365)
> 
> Thank you, blondebitz, for creating your lovely rockstar art and for letting me play in your sandbox. It was a lot of fun working with you!
> 
> Firesign10, O Beta Extraordinaire, thank you so much for bailing me out again! 
> 
> I watched a lot of Flashpoint while writing this. Maybe you noticed?


End file.
